Nightingale
by inbox
Summary: Nord Dragonborn and Tullius. Written for the Skyrim kink meme.


When the Dragonborn pays him a social call, General Tullius is impressed at her brazenness. She's welcome – she's always welcome, how could she not be – but it's quite another thing to slip into his office and wait on the edge of a pool of candlelight, pushing back her hood and gradually letting him realise that she's there.

Nightingale, he calls her, thumbing the black leather wings sweeping over her chest. Dragonborn just gives him a look, lips parted enough to show a flash of white teeth, and takes his hand.

"Paperwork," she whispers, her accent shaped like the snow-scoured hills, "makes men dull."

Legate Rikke is asleep on the other side of the room divider, tossing and turning on leather and straw, and Tullius silences the Dragonborn with a fingertip pressed hard to the swell of her lip. She bites him for that, teeth pressed hard on his nail, and he runs a hand affectionately over her close-cropped scalp as if she hadn't touched him.

"Upstairs, Nightingale," he says, voice pitched low. "You've got nothing to add to my paperwork."

Legate Rikke rolls over and sighs in her sleep, oblivious to the sound of a chair being pushed back and footsteps, two pairs, leaving her to her peace.

* * *

Dragonborn shuts the door to his quarters behind her, bronze studs pushing into her spine as she draws a foot up to tug off one boot then the other. When she moves to unlace the leather thongs at the waist of her leggings, Tullius bades her to stop.

"What use is a gift if you can't unwrap it?" he asks, pushing aside the leather plates of his cingulum to take himself in hand. He's hard, harder still as his Nightingale daintily steps over his legs and gently pushes his thighs together with her knees. His balls are uncomfortably pressed between skin, not hard enough to ache but firm enough to leave him carefully shifting his weight and looking for comfort.

"Go ahead," she says, a gloved hand resting on a phalerae emblazoned with the seal of the Emperor. "Unwrap."

He unlaces her with steady fingers, thumbnails digging into her flesh as he drags the buttery soft leather down with her smalls until she has no choice but to step back and free him, leather pooling around her ankles as she's finally stripped half bare. When he reaches to unbuckle her cloak she says no, plants a hand square in the middle of his chest and indicates that he should lay down.

"No time," says the Dragonborn, a little half smile on her face. "I have places to be."

She waits until he's settled and crawls the length of his body, kneeling over his chest and combing a finger through his hair. _She spends too much time with the Khajit,_ he thinks, enjoying the sensation of nails across his scalp to really care. He wishes he could get her naked, finally get to revel in what he's only seen in bits and pieces, glanced at and groped during quick fumbled fucks here and on the road, but he settles for running a hand along her thigh, brushing against the grain of the baby-fine hairs speckling her skin.

"Places more important than this?" He digs his hands into her backside, encouraging her to shuffle forward and kneel over his face. "I was going to add this to my diary later. 'Engaged in high level diplomatic discussions.'"

There's still a touch of soap on her skin and he breathes it in, greedily inhaling the heady scent of snow and soap and wet woman, and the moan she makes as he kisses her cunt makes him dig his heels into the green coverlet and dig his fingers into her skin .

"I have-" she starts, losing her thoughts as he fucks her cunt with his tongue until he's dizzy from lack of air. Dragonborn leans back, a hand on the glossy bronze whorls decorating his chest, and shakes her head as Tullius gets his breath back. His face is slicked wet, a warpaint of gloss smeared from nose to chin. She tells him so and he laughs. He doesn't get too many laughs these days, and if she was a softer woman she'd care about that. She doesn't though, and he'd never expect her too, so instead she strokes her clit as he sets back to licking her, two fingers brushing against the bridge of his nose.

"Appointments," she starts again, the first little shivers of pleasure making her voice catch. "At the Blue Palace."

He runs a hand from hip to ribcage and cups her breast, hardened leather protesting his grip. Tullius feels her orgasm before he hears her bitten-back moan, knocking her slowing fingers away and suckling at her nub until she breathes his name again and again.

She kisses him after that, teeth and tongues and the slick-slide of her wetness all over his face, and it's a blessed relief when she blindly pushes up leather plate and coarse cotton and takes his cock in hand.

"Ride me," he tells her, not wanting to spill in her palm like a wet-eared lad. Dragonborn, for once, obeys, and she's so wet and so tight, muscles still shivering the push-pull of her orgasm, that he presses his forearm over his eyes and grits his teeth.

Dragonborn gives him a moment, that same little half smile on her face as she pins him down with her hands hard on his bracers, and for a second he thinks that she might kill him one day. The thought only spurs him on, arching his hips high and revelling in her moans.

_Nightingale_, he thinks, and the coarse prickle of her cloak against his thighs gives him something to focus on. He's the one fucking the Dragonborn, he's the one making this Nord with her shaved scalp and her hard eyes moan his name. If he tilts his head just so he can see her wedding band bright against the leather of his bracers, and the thought of her husband milling around her house but a spit away in Solitude, oblivious to his wife breathing out _Tullius, Tullius_... it is enough to make a man forget his station.

He frees himself from her grip and rests his hands on her hips, leather armour creaking as he slammed her down and twisted his hips once, twice and comes with a grunt, snarling as she squirms a hand between Imperial bronze and midnight leather and plucks at her clit. She pants his name in his ear and Tullius bits at the meat of her neck, the contractions of her orgasm enough to keep him hard and ready to fuck her again.

It's not to be though, and he lays on the bed and watches Dragonborn dress, not bothering to clean up the slick of semen and spit on her thighs. Tullius realises that she plans on meeting the Jarl with him on her skin and he holds that thought away for later, and doesn't even permit himself to think about her kissing her fool husband on the cheek even as she was wet with another man's seed.

He sits up and swings his feet off the bed, smoothing down his tunic and cingulum as she sets her hood back into place. Nightingale, he thinks, shadows and blackness and daggers on her hips. She'll be the ruin of him if he lets her.

"Watch out for Rikke," he says, and she bares her teeth at him. It'll do for a good bye.


End file.
